


nautis

by ghostwit



Category: One Piece
Genre: Character Study, Gen, I suppose? We'll see where it goes., Implied/Referenced Character Death, Post-Marineford, Very much about Striker.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:34:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26412730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwit/pseuds/ghostwit
Summary: Past gone stale and thick with mildew; future stopped dead in suspended animation.Nothing in between, where has your present gone?(A shake of the head. Try again.)
Relationships: Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco & Masked Deuce, Masked Deuce & Portgas D. Ace, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 5
Kudos: 6





	nautis

Ace, who courts danger like a first love, gratified by pain and forged in fire where he settles himself on the precipice of death. Boots sunk somewhere marshy so the seawater can tickle his toes, burning off into tacky precipitant with the sense of a struggle.  _ Hate me, _ he compels. A shake of the head. Try again.

Ace, who smiles and bows deep when he’s lost, offers a hand when his knuckles are bruised and raw. Ace, who crosses his arms over his knees and smiles under a wide-brimmed hat, laughs as someone else tucks into a meal his stomach aches for. Who splits a fruit with his bare hands and lets the juice drip through the creases of his hands, down his wrist to speckle desert sands with moisture.

Deuce only rides Striker--the proper shipwright’s Striker, built up a sleekly nauseating banana yellow around the keel of desperation he’d fashioned for them--once, feet braced awkwardly on either side, olive leather wilting in the heat where it dips into the the lit body of the boat. His arms wind stubbornly around his captain’s waist as he lists forward, dark hair whipping across the bridge of his nose when Ace tilts his head back to laugh. He doesn’t ride her again, and the thought settles somewhere in him--not cold regret, not warm contentedness, just ink on a page, dry and worn thin with every time he passes over the memory, the hiss of her engine and the smell of Ace’s skin, the oil of it breaking down carefully penned lettering. 

The wood is real under his hands, though, smooth and cool with no flame to fill her, skimming the water without the usual fanfare of her rocking. Rather than the usual precariousness in the way she just barely sits above churning depth, a sense of calm, a leaf fluttered down to settle on the glass surface. He jostles her with a bare heel just to watch her bob. 

You do not need to be hiding to be  _ found _ ; It’s a lesson Deuce has learnt again and again, finding himself in the solace of Ace’s smile, the soft skin of his palms, the way his eyes creased and the way he grit his teeth, but he’s still startled into stillness, absurd  _ embarrassment _ , when Marco’s searchlight gaze sweeps over his back.  _ Found _ . He wears the same clothes he always has, leather coat worn white where his shoulder blades dig through, mask still slotted comfortably over his face even in solitude, on an island where no one would know his name either way. It’s an author’s job: to immortalize. 

_ How did you find me?  _ does not even come close to sticking in his throat--he wasn’t hiding--instead,  _ Please, don’t take her, she’s all I have left.  _ climbing with a cloying, seductive sweetness to settle right behind his teeth like vomited taffy. How easy it would be, though, with the way Marco’s head drops to settle along his shoulder with a fragile (none of his loose-limbed nonchalance, sleepy smiles and easy gestures) sigh, eyes crimped in equal parts hurt and contentment as his eyes settle on Striker, how easy to force the tar into his mouth with parted teeth and sharp tongue. 

_ You _ , hissed, petulance and fury like a struck match,  _ took my captain from me; man and title. What is left?  _ Deuce, still, is fundamentally malleable, real action taken only in sudden, inspired strides.

(“Divine inspiration,” he muttered to his captain when prompted on his escape from a stifling home life, spread his fingers so the night sky stretched between them like star-speckled putty. Ace laughed. Nothing of this desire is divine, juvenile and raw.) 

He can’t scorn what’s left of his captain’s benefactor, decisive where all Deuce had done was clutch his hand with a child’s loyalty. His benefactor, too, he muses with a lonely furrow creasing his brow.  _ Found _ , again and again, in the hands of brothers. 

And, even further still, he can’t deny another romantic.

"Sit," he grunts, scooches a little closer, possessively so, to the Striker to make space for Marco on the dock. And, so, because Deuce had asked, Marco sits, dipping ankles into cool seawater like it doesn't make him slump forward with eyelids fluttering. Exhaustion on exhaustion, a sort of freedom in the way it drains him so wholly. 

Deuce’s hand falls between them with an echoing thunk, and Marco speaks into the echo, refusing to let the lonely sound dominate the interaction, “Can I try-yoi?” 

Deuce tightens, consciousness rushing to fill his skin until everything is too-close-too-real-too-loud, the rush of blood in his ears and an irritated heat on his skin. He isn’t sure what Marco’s asking, isn’t sure if he wants to know, but the nod of the head--a motion he recognizes from the  _ Moby _ , silent authority--towards the boat at his side is enough to just barely tip him in. Marco lifts a leg, foot hitting the dock with a wet  _ smack  _ and knee bent so he can press his cheek into it, one arm wrapped around his thigh and fingers glancing the dampened edge of his slacks, and something in the motion is so lost, so forlorn, that Deuce nods, mutters a  _ sure.  _

Marco smiles, close-mouthed, cocks his head at Deuce and just looks at him for a beat.  _ No _ , his eyes screw shut. He doesn’t want the kindness, the understanding, not now when the feeling is ripe and tender and will rend him to drip, to smear ink and lose track. Deuce turns away, towards Striker, then down, to his lap, where his hands--withdrawn from the dock, he couldn’t stand that suspended space between him and Marco, with his wrist flopping between like a silent lifeline--are fisting in his coat, leather warbling and twisting in the pit of his legs where he sits criss-cross. His knees hang beyond the dock and beneath the water is smooth, obstructed only by his wavering shadow. 

Marco’s hand brushes his shoulder blades as he passes to untether the boat. Cold, stark consolation that stings in his wake. Spine straightening reflexively, a jolt of lightning at the small of his back and knees hiking into his face, folding upwards. 

(Ace’s hand in a searing print on his bicep before each solo trip, ducking into the second division’s communal quarters to always,  _ always _ let Deuce know, loyalty still knotting the two around each other. Hanging elbows over the railing to watch him skirt away from the Moby in a plume of white seafoam, whooping and laughing as he chases the horizon line, the phoenix craning his long neck with a fond tilt. Feathers brushing his throat when the beast rushes past, lands on the deck with a thump of sandals.)

He sighs and slumps forward into them as Striker’s engine begins to wheeze. A shake of the head, it’s not a sound he’s ever heard her make.

**Author's Note:**

> Me writing multi-chap is unheard of so maybe I'll edit the format of this but umm. this as of now. Getting my feel for this piece T_T No real thoughts but Deuce is fun to work with because he's smart but like... petty duhgthj. Haven't read Novel A so forgive me any discrepancies. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Feel free to leave a comment if you'd like.
> 
> hazeism.tumblr.com


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